


The Simple Things

by cyfarwydd



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Third - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyfarwydd/pseuds/cyfarwydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories exploring the simple moments between the Winchester brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Simple Things

  
    


* * *

Kicked -    
_  
  
Something about kicking open a door was fundamental, simple, Sam's own little picture show.   
  
_

* * *

  
  


  
Sam tensed slightly in anticipation as he watched his older brother examine the door.   


  
There was a slight anger in that look, like he was mad at the door for not opening for him.   


  
A smugness that just reeked satisfaction, him knowing that he was about to kick it open. Just. Like. That. Overpower it easily, some kind of power rush such a simple act inspired.   


  
For both of the brothers.   


  
Dean would position himself, face set in a determined look mingling with the other emotions. That look of knowing he was going to do it, or the fucking door would be in splinters, one way or another.   


  
Sent a shiver down Sam's spine, that coiled power that was released for the single moment.   


  
Dean would square his shoulders, tilting them to the side.   


  
Hands were usually alert at his sides, clenching in an unsteady rhythm.   


  
Or pulled up, wrapping Dean up safe.   


  
Sam would see those hips twist, watch as if in slow motion as the leg pulled back, muscles straining.   


  
Veiled power.   


  
Then he would unleash it, let go of his rein for that little moment to do that single task.   


  
His shirt would ride up just so, flashing an inch of lightly tanned skin.   


  
Eyes would be smoldering as he forced open the door, even more so when he prepared to go in to face the Demon or whatever the hell they were hunting at the time.   


  
Sam would stand by in wonder as he saw a glimpse of that hidden part of his brother.   


  
Of that power and knowledge, fundamental and primal.   


  
And he would have to stare captivated, because an act such as that was his own little picture show.   


  
  


* * *

Glance   
  
 -    
_  
You would glance over at him, and you would see why you always did so.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
You turned your head slightly to the side, a little glance to the right in order to see that profile. The strong jaw, little bit of stubble from the lack of morning shower.   


  
His hair shined.   


  
Then he would turn his head and look right back, strong and bold and shy.   


  
His eyes would meet yours, flickering between green and hazel.   


  
They would draw you in.   


  
You would look and see yourself in those eyes at times.   


  
Others, you would be sharing a secret, like little kids behind a bush after their first Halloween prank.   


  
The secret of the time which you live for. When there was nothing between you and him. Where you were one and none at the same time. Lost to the sensations.   


  
You would look and see the remembrance, and you would have to smirk because it was so damn funny for some reason you could never figure out.   


  
The ultimate though, was when you would look and see that devotion.   


  
That appreciation that said what he never could. That he was happy, that he needed you. You were doing something right in his mind.   


  
You were his brother, and in that moment, you felt the bond.   


  
The link between you flaring to life and you would have to smile.   


  
Because it was there and it was real. You were there for each other. He needed you, you needed him. It was a tug a war of emotions and you were both winners in the end.   


  
It was all either of you had, and damn, that was something to smile about some days.   


  
  


* * *

Smile   
  
 -    
_  
Whenever Dean smiled, Sammy was home.   
_   


* * *

_  
  
  
  
_

  
Sam gasped silently as he watched his brother. Dean was looking out into the night, the road passing by in a blur as Sam drove.   


  
His head was resting against the leather, breathing in the scent.   


  
Music was blasting out of the tape player, but it was soft, gentle. A steady beat of rhythm that masked the roughness.   


  
It was the country outside, no lights to be seen and the stars were out.   


  
The moonlight had his brother's face shining silver.   


  
Then Sam had placed his hand onto his brothers denim clad thigh, a warm weight against his leg, a reassurance, and Dean had smiled.   


  
Head turned to him, a soft lifting of lips, lines softening, eyes lighting up and showing Sam a window.   


  
He smiled and it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.   


  
That flash of white teeth, not blindly so, but just right, straight and natural and so him, the tip of his tongue showing from just in between his teeth.   


  
The plump lips stretched, corners lifting up and there was something so carefree and Dean about the act that Sam had to smile blindingly back.   


  
He felt like he was near tears, the sight was heart warming and familiar and perfect.   


  
Whenever Dean smiled, Sammy was home.   


  
  


* * *

Blink   
  
 -    
_  
Sam watched in wonder as his brother blinked. In that single moment, he saw the innocence.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
Sam watched as Dean stared at the road, silently mouthing the words to the song playing at the moment.   


  
The sun was hitting his face just so, giving it the golden profile.   


  
Then Dean blinked and Sam was fascinated all over again.   


  
His eyelashes were incredibly long, the end tipped a light bronze color that made Sam's throat go dry.   


  
Thick, like a shade being pulled down, a blanket covering his world.   


  
They curled up, the curve of the shining lashes being seductive in a way Sam would never know how.   


  
It reminded him of the dip of a back.   


  
Those wondrous things would touch down on the lightly freckled skin, and it would take Sam's breath away.   


  
Anger would fill him for just a second, a quick flash of time. They were covering Dean's eyes, the liquid jade that was one of Sam's only ways to see into his brother were being covered, if only for a moment.   


  
But then he would truly look, see them for what they were. They showed his innocence, his pain, emotions, all in a motion.   


  
And he would be alright because when Dean blinked, he saw the truth, and it was beautiful.   


  
  


* * *

Picking The Lock   
 -  _There was something fascinating about watching someone getting the secrets of one person by any means necessary. Something about watching Sammy do it._

* * *

 _  
  
  
  
_

  
Dean watched in fascination as he stood next to Sammy.   


  
Saw him get on his knees in front of the old lock, his pink tongue held in concentration as his forehead creased.   


  
Long fingered hands deftly begin the process and Dean couldn't look away.   


  
From the wide palm, the sharp contrast of knuckles, stretching skin.   


  
Spidery fingers, slender and lithe, tanned.   


  
Rough, strong, contained power.   


  
All working in sync, focused on the task at hand, picking that lock.   


  
Getting the secrets of someone by any means possible.   


  
Eyes burned fiercely.   


  
Nostrils slightly flared.   


  
Lips compressed.   


  
Shoulders tense as his hands worked.   


  
Beautiful.   


  
  


* * *

Moist   
  
 -    
_  
You could only feel guilty as you imagened that tongue darting out to moisten his lips on you.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
Your breath sped slightly as you watched that pink tongue dart out quickly.   


  
He would open his mouth just slightly and for a split second, you could watch it come out, flicking the top and bottom lips before returning to his mouth.   


  
You knew he saw you stare, knew that he prolonged moments at times, just for you.   


  
He would let his tongue linger, seeming to taste the air, You.   


  
It drove you crazy, that simple little act.   


  
Was your first sexual attraction. You were thirteen, young and growing when you noticed how often your brother liked to moisten his lips. You would stare guiltily as that tongue made a sweeping motion and you would imagine it on your cock.   


  
You had asked him once, why he did it. He had said that is was automatic, wasn't even aware. He said he liked his lips soft, felt better.   


  
And years later, you thought so too as you felt those soft, moist lips latch onto your neck, lightly kissing.   


  
His tongue would occasionally dart out of that sweetly forbidden place and taste a bit of your skin in accident, and you would arch up, gasp.   


  
Because when he did that, you were filled with thoughts and images of how it will be, was, is, and that's all you really need.   


  
  


* * *

Voice -    
_  
  
It was warmth, life, everything for that one moment in time. Those catches and riffs hit were nothing compared to the sheer passion in his voice.   
  
_

* * *

  
  


  
Sam breathed out, sitting slumped in the hard chair of the motel. He was letting that voice wash over him, soaking it up.   


  
His older brother was talking about something, he wasn't really sure what. He had zoned out a while ago.   


  
Closed his eyes and just stopped thinking, focusing solely on that noise.   


  
The rasping undertone. It was rough, made him feel all tingly.   


  
That little accent that Sam himself had. A country way of talking, most especially when he got mad. It made Sammy smile in remembrance, of their childhood, their lives of before.   


  
It was deep, sent shivers down his spine, took his breath away. It was a well that he loved to fall into.   


  
When he just listened to that, nothing else, the tension in his muscles all but seemed to disappear. Thoughts of what could be, what had happened, all worrying him, faded to the background.   


  
All replaced by Dean's words. A constant stream of steady, soothing volume.   


  
A memory suddenly rose and it had Sam grinning like the Cheshire cat. When he was younger, had nightmares, Dean would sit by his bed and sing for him, it never failed to blanket him. Make him feel safe.   


  
Sam spoke up, interrupting Dean in the middle of whatever sentence he was in.   


  
"Will you sing for me?"   


  
Sam cracked his eyes open to be greeted with the sight of his brother staring incredulously at him.   


  
"Dude, random much. Where the hell did that question come from?" Sam shook his head.   


  
"I just want to hear you sing. It's nice." Dean looked at him with all his defensive, joking demeanor until he saw Sam's eyes, glowing with suppressed want of this thing which he couldn't explain.   


  
Dean sighed, eyes locking onto Sam's and simply staring before leaning back and then leaning forward once more, awkward.   


  
Resting his elbows on his knees, Dean cleared his throat.   


  
"I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea All we do, crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see."   


  
Sam smiled, recognizing the ballad. Classic Kansas.   


  
Leaning back once more, he resumed his resting position. When Dean sang, it was something special, his voice transformed.   


  
It was warmth, life, everything for that one moment in time. Those catches and riffs hit were nothing compared to the sheer passion in his voice.   


  
  


* * *

Lean -    
_  
  
Dean would never know why the sight of Sammy leaning against the Impala inspired such feelings in him.   
  
_

* * *

  
  


  
Dean shaded his eyes as he walked out of the dark room. The sun was out and bright, Texas hot.   


  
He shrugged his shoulders, loosening the sticking of his leather jacket somewhat from his skin. The hunt had been for a Chupacabra, bitch had been torched and Sammy had been restless to leave this morning, another vision, another person to be saved.   


  
Feeling for the cool grasp of his keys, that touch of metal shock on his hot hand.   


  
He glanced up, keys found, ready to hit the road, and gasped.   


  
An exclamation of breath at the sight before him, unable to contain anything in his chest apart from that overwhelming something.   


  
Sammy was waiting, long chestnut hair shining brilliantly in the sun, shading his face as he leaned it forward.   


  
Long arms stretched, encased in the many layers that lay fluttering about his limbs in a soft breeze.   


  
Those hands that were so graceful in thought, clumsy in everyday, breath taking always, were shoved into pockets, disappearing into the fabric of his jeans.   


  
Pulling the material down, a thin line of white below contrasting golden brown. The skin wrapped around him, smooth, with a mole darkening the occasional spot. Dean could see the sharp hipbones holding up the cloth, indenting his skin to become intoxicating plains.   


  
Coltish legs, looking thin in the clothes worn, hiding the true power, contours of muscle, were slightly bent, accommodating his length so that he could do the act that he was.   


  
Feet planted firmly, nearly shoving at the ground, somehow becoming something symbolized. A stance, state of mind, way of life.   


  
All acts working together to perform the task which inspired something    
_  
noyestoomuchnotenough   
_   
 in his thoughts.   


  
Little Sammy, his brother, damsel, knight, strength, weakness, everything was leaning against his car. The one possession still survived of their father, their life, their family.   


  
Their new relationship start.   


  
The shining black was an abyss behind his brother, something solid that he seemed to fall to, become part of.   


  
The angles surrounding his, size somehow not encompassing Sam, rather working with him, whole and right.   


  
A picture of brooding, worry, determination, hidden strength. Both of them, her who had saved both countless times, him who had resurrected her when she was left to no other hope.   


  
Inspired the clash of feelings of the want, the love, the supposed wrong mixing with the right. A mystery.   


  
He would never know why that sight did such a thing to him. The simple act of his little brother leaning against the muscle of the Impala.   


  
Never know why it made him experience that sense of vertigo, constricting of throat. Relief of mind, relaxing of shoulders.   


  
That sight was an enigma of color and shape, of dark and light and all that was his brother. A contradiction that would always be right and wrong.   


  
  


* * *

Sleep   
  
 -    
_  
It was these moments were he was the protector.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
Sam blinked awake, clearing the flashing images from his vision. He had no real picture of what had happened, couldn't do anything about it.   


  
The only thing he could be thankful of was the fact that it hadn't been a violent one, he hadn't woken Dean up like he usually did.   


  
No he could do what he liked to whenever he had dreams such as these.   


  
He could watch.   


  
Turning slightly to the left, onto his side he settled in, arm beneath his head, blanket pushed down in the heat of the night.   


  
The blinking red lights of the vacancy sign shone through the flimsy curtains, casting a dingy light upon his brothers sleeping face.   


  
Dean was lying on his back, head tilted right, resting on the pillow, facing him.   


  
Bee stung lips were open to let in the slightest breath, just enough to see the thinnest line of black between the mauve.   


  
Stubble had grown, shadowing his face, making him seem older, rougher, contrasting with what sleeping did to his brother.   


  
In sleep, his face relaxed, became slack.   


  
He looked peaceful, young, and at times, carefree.   


  
When the dream would show on his face and Sam would watch transfixed as eyes moved rapidly under eyelids. Perfect nose would scrunch up, distorting the light freckles, lips would twitch.   


  
Or, when their was no dream shown at all, and his face was simply in its natural state.   


  
It was fascinating.   


  
Those eyelashes would lay, motionless, a piece of art set to admire. Lips would remain pouted, not stretched by the usual smile, full form.   


  
Hair was endearing in this state, made Sam smile to see the usually neat locks spiked this way and that, everywhere. Bed hair.   


  
His face would smooth out and Sam would wake up at times just to see his brother like this.   


  
Where at times like these, he was the protector.   


  
  


* * *

Drive   
  
 -    
_  
It was at times like these where he would have the control.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
Dean breathed deeply, content.   


  
They had a hunt up ahead, some type of poltergeist haunting a family for some reason or another.   


  
It had been between that or an old ghost hundred miles back, neither were doing much harm, just scaring the people up 'round town.   


  
Sam had let him choose, he had picked the poltergeist, it was over four hundred miles west.   


  
Picked it simply to do what he was doing now.   


  
His hands gripped the textured steering wheel in a lose grip, feeling the leather under his palms shift, slightest motion turning the car the way he wanted it to.   


  
Such a powerful thing he was in control of, other times he had no control at all, it could be his trap, his salvation.   


  
His back was pressed firmly against the hardsoft seat, vibrations traveling along his spine, moving towards his legs, arms, all the way down to his finger tips. The two feelings mingling.   


  
Those bumps and catches showing him the touch and go, smooth and rough of the thing he was driving. He held no false pretenses of control. He had the rein for a moment, this object which had a life of its own would comply and he would feel free, feel the rush.   


  
She could be temperamental, following his wants, yet protesting, slipping and sliding when he knew she could have done it perfectly.   


  
Or no control at all, when other forces acted upon her and she would do something against both of their wills.   


  
But at these moments, where he was allowed the control for a moment, he would relish it, cherish those times when he could feel the power complying, bending and twisting to his movements.   


  
He was the one issuing orders at these times.   


  
His feet planted firmly on the floor, the feeling of gliding over rough terrain on the soles, in these moments, his entire body was blending with the motions of the being thought not to be alive.   


  
She wasn't, in the literal sense, but he knew she was in another way. She had the control, occasionally she would lend it. She had more power than he had ever known.   


  
Sometimes, she would give that to him too.   


  
  


* * *

Kill   
  
 -    
_  
Sam watched as Dean reached behind him, fingertips brushing skin as he drew the cool metal.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
Sam bit his lip, drawing blood to the surface of the tender skin.   


  
They were on their latest hunt, some type of demon, neither were sure of what exactly.   


  
But they had come prepared.   


  
It had appeared, the demon,and Sam paused, glancing towards his brother.   


  
It was corporeal, could be shot. And as he watched, Dean reached behind him, fingertips brushing the skin of his back as he pulled the cool metal from his jeans.   


  
Eyes narrowed, lips forming a growl. Forcing the blood into the dusty red, curling around flashing white.   


  
A smart ass comment, ringing through the silence, thick in the air.   


  
Arms rose, left bending beneath right, overlapping limbs, a twisting dance.   


  
His shoulders would tense, preparing for the impact.   


  
Legs stood stance, feet planted firm as he leaned slightly forward, knees in half-crouch. Hips would unconsciously tilt.   


  
His entire body strong, firm, powerful.   


  
There was something about it that took Sam's breath away, an unexplainable reaction to the sight of that body preparing to fire, muscles, limbs, everything, all working together.   


  
A glint would enter his eyes, of retribution, justice given, of not enough.   


  
Then he would pull the trigger.   


  
Long, tanned finger pressing down, releasing a bullet.   


  
Such a simple thing, so powerful, complicated. Dean.   


  
And the aftershock would come, the jarring wall slamming.   


  
Readied body protecting him from the majority, letting the minority slip through, jolting him back across the floor.   


  
Eyes would remain open, watchful, body not relaxing as he gazed at the falling body.   


  
Dangerous, natural, there.   


  
Home.   


  
  


* * *

Jump   
  
 -    
_  
Dean watches, captivated as Sam goes up and over, vaults the gate in an effortless move.   
_   


* * *

_  
  
  
  
_

  
Dean paused, falling back as they ran to watch.   


  
They had to get to the painting, salt and burn the freaky ass thing, to get to it, they had to vault the fence.   


  
Slowing his run he let Sammy's freakishly long legs carrying him ahead, breath caught in anticipation as long hair fell into his brothers eyes.   


  
This was when he got to see a little bit of the Sam that he didn't often get to.   


  
When he would seem to stare past the gate, effortlessly going over.   


  
Legs bending to get a start, pulling back power, preparing to release it all in a millisecond.   


  
Arms raised, muscles rippling as they grabbed the top, shoulders squaring and straining as he pulled himself up.   


  
Those legs didn't scramble or thrash, they pushed, tugged, up and over in a smooth motion.   


  
Hips pivoting to the side, gliding through the air in a seamless, natural movement.   


  
He would be in the air for just a moment, a barely kept grasp on the gate as he went over.   


  
The pure instinct in that act was amazing.   


  
Alluring.   


  
Then he would let go, free fall, legs preparing for the impact.   


  
He would land, crouched. Fingertips dragging the ground, a light resting of weight as his body dropped, gravity in effect.   


  
Without a blink he would rise, one stumbling step forwards before the gliding grace was back.   


  
Hair would fly wild about him as he did this.   


  
All performed in a simple second.   


  
  


* * *

Skin   
  
 -    
_  
Sam had to worship what was beneath him, because it was all that was Dean.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
He breathed in deeply, taking in the scent..   


  
Sam let his tongue flicker out, lapping lightly at the smoothrough texture underneath.   


  
He tasted like salt, tangy yet sweet, and lime, a perfect mix. All blending together to become a unique flavor held over his tongue. His.   


  
The smooth golden plains felt like water running through his fingers, a type of feathery light that felt like butter.   


  
And leather. A rough touch.   


  
Whenever he placed himself over it, he felt a pleasant heat run through him. And he had to shudder because that feeling made something rise in his stomach, an odd, cool littering of gentle caresses.   


  
Then he breathed again, and his breath caught in his throat.   


  
The smell was overwhelming, the scent of something indescribable and Dean. The scent of the taut skin writhing underneath him, fresh and musky, heavy and light.   


  
All coupled together to become a weakness, a shrine.   


  
And he had to worship that skin because it showed all that was Dean.   


  
Simple on the outside, a never ending stretch without seams. But the truth, the truth was complicated and hard, but it was life.   


  
  


* * *

Stitches    
  
-    
_  
They were both each others stitches, keeping the seams from ripping, letting the pressure win.   
_   


* * *

  
  


  
Sam took a deep breath, catching his bottom lip under his teeth.   


  
He had to concentrate, his hands couldn't shake now.   


  
Couldn't show the horror he felt.   


  
It had been a routine hunt, find the bad thing, kill it, leave, but something had gone wrong. It hadn't been what they had expected, and it had cost them   


  
The monster, for Sam wouldn't define it as anything else, had caught the his brothers skin, tearing it.   


  
They had wasted it, it was ash now, but that didn't reverse the damage. Didn't make the looming sense of no and Dean disappear.   


  
He had done this countless times, seen so much blood, too much. But as he dropped on the old carpet covered in unidentifiable things, kneeling before his sitting brother, he shook.   


  
Shuddering breaths threatened to take surface if he didn't take control, didn't focus. He had to fix Dean.   


  
But no matter how many times he performed this task, the thought of intentionally threading that needle through skin made him ill.   


  
But he had to do it, for Dean.   


  
And so he set to work, efficiently losing himself in the job, not paying attention to the battering thoughts, his brothers imperceptible flinching.   


  
The minutes drew and he heaved a breath of relief when it was done, the neat row of stitches in front of him, resting on his brothers left arm, dug deep into the flesh.   


  
Then he saw the blood.   


  
On his hands, Dean's arm, the bed, and he felt the overwhelming urge to make it disappear.   


  
He shot to his feet, ignoring Dean's shocked noise at the sudden movement as he headed to the bathroom, finding the softest towel he could and soaking it in water, not caring that it retained too much, dripping onto the floor.   


  
On returning he went back on his knees, quickly scrubbing himself and then working it gently, frantically around Dean's wound.   


  
Moving on to the sheets he started his almost possessed cleaning, trying to get the stain out, too many stains, too much lost.   


  
He didn't know he was crying until his brother titled his head up, pulling the cloth out of his hands as he gently wiped away the salty liquid with his thumbs.   


  
"It's okay, Sammy, it'll be okay, I promise."   


  
His brother, injured, tired, self-sacrificing relier was trying to comfort him.   


  
A wracking sob burst free and he was being tugged into his brothers arms, left one being held just out of contact.   


  
This wasn't how it was supposed to be, he had meant to help Dean, to make it better, but all he'd done was make Dean comfort him, again and again.   


  
He would never stop, always putting himself in harms way for Sam, just like tonight, just like last week, just like a month from now.   


  
And Sam could only do the small things, try and relieve the hurt as much as he could, the pain he had caused.   


  
But what he didn't realize was that just as Dean held him together, stopped him from crumbling under the overwhelming everything, he did the same for Dean.   


  
They were both each others stitches, keeping the seams from ripping, letting the pressure win.   


  
And they would never know it.   



End file.
